These Fatalistic Gods
by cantilatrix
Summary: The war ended twenty years ago, and all is well- isn't it? A new generation of prophesied children fight against their destinies in the shadow of an ever-more-hostile wizarding world. A war is looming once more, and this time the forces of 'good' are content their work is already done.
1. Chapter 1: Kingsley

**1997**

* * *

Voldemort's death was the end for Harry Potter. His destiny had dragged him through history to the dark wizard's final hours, and he had held on until the very last, but when Voldemort's mortal body hit the ground, the exhausted man gave up his tools of destruction, shrugged destiny off, and went home.

But, Kingsley reflected as he slowly charmed his broken arm back into place, there's no day off for the civil service.

After dragging the country into chaos and total pureblood rule for eight months, there were fascists to arrest, imprisoned lawmakers to call back to their seats, an endless pile of paperwork. With Voldemort and his puppet government deposed, the Ministry had to be rebuilt from the ground up, and there could be no celebration. Kingsley came back with what was left of the Aurors, grimly walking into a public toilet with blood still staining his coat, and almost walked straight back into the Floo portal when he emerged to find, central in the atrium, a statue of Muggles crushed beneath the might of Wizardkind. A wizard and a witch, sitting hand in hand, and the twisted bodies of ugly, inhuman people, forming a chair upon which to rest.

After the fight he had narrowly survived, the friends he had lost, the statue was a kick in the teeth. It told him, "you're not done yet, you won't be done for years, not while these monuments stand, not while these beliefs hold". The words at the bottom of the statue read 'MAGIC IS MIGHT'.

He barged to the front of the exhausted crowd, raised his wand, snarled a word.

The solemn witch and wizard exploded outwards, showering the atrium with carved obsidian. A Muggle's gargoyle visage slid to a stop beside him.

The crowd did not move or cheer. They merely stepped over the rubble on their way to clear up the mess that was left to them.

The immediate task was arresting those that hadn't been present at the Battle of Hogwarts. There were many: an army is nothing without its obsequious followers. Of all of them, Dolores Umbridge put up the most of a fight, having retreated to her heavily warded home in Gloucestershire, but her skills at magic wielding had never been as powerful as her politics, and the combined efforts of three Aurors had her in front of the decimated Wizengamot in under five hours. Her judge (Brunnhilde Stokke, Blood Traitor, sentenced seven months ago) had just been released from Azkaban, malnourished and needing hospitalisation but determined to carry out judgement. It was a kangaroo court, and Umbridge protested as such, but there were next to no Wizengamot members left to act as a jury, and nobody wanted to be the devil's advocate. She was taken to Azkaban less than an hour after her arrest. Somebody took her cats to a shelter.

And then the next task: making sense of the paper trail left behind. Upon Voldemort's death the new Ministry had fled, but not before destroying a significant proportion of the records in the offices. It would have repercussions for years, Kingsley heard from a panicked staffer; the new Muggle-Born records had been entirely decimated, with only a neat pile of Azkaban convictions left to show they were ever there. The system needed to be rebuilt from the ground up, and the overwhelming legal focus on blood purity needed to be untangled from the mild legal focus on blood purity that had been in place before.

In short, Kingsley sighed as he made his way through the building, it was a fucking mess, and short of his duty to clear up the immediate nightmare tonight, he was going home, getting drunk, and mourning the friends he'd lost.

That's when a staffer ran up to him and told him he had been appointed Acting Minister for Magic.

"Well," Kingsley said, holding himself upright, inhaling slow and steady. "What are we waiting for? Let's get to work."

* * *

 **2003**

* * *

"And so, it gives me great pleasure to announce the final tally as: 76 content, 24 not content. Kingsley Shacklebolt is reelected Minister for Magic."

Cheers erupted in the atrium, and Kingsley smiled into the cameras as they began to flash. The Ministry for Magic was bathed in golden light from the fountains.

The final weeks of campaign had been difficult, after several of his policies received aggressive attention by his competitor, but after long and patient work to explain why he felt removing Dementors from Azkaban was a just choice, and significant behind-the-scenes concessions on the matter with certain key ministers, his early-announcement election had turned in his favour. His term was extended for another seven years at least, giving him the time he needed to make the changes he believed in. He shook hands with his opponent, stepped up to the podium.

"Thank you. It has been my joy to work for you, but there is much left to do. I-"

In the back, behind the photographers' flashes, Kingsley could make out Amabel Holst, one of his chief advisors, Secretary for the Department of Mysteries.

Who was making desperate movements with her hand cutting against her neck.

Kingsley cleared his throat.

"-have much left to do tonight, as a matter of fact, to thank my campaign staff. Please, enjoy the evening. Thank you all."

A slight murmur of confusion, but Kingsley didn't stay to listen: he swept from the podium, walked fast enough to force his security to catch up with him, swept down corridor after corridor until he found himself in the situation room. He had been Minister long enough to know what a room sounds like when it was afraid. The room went silent as he entered.

Amabel Holst walked in beside him, breathing a little too loud.

"What's happening?" Kingsley asked.

Amabel handed him a paper. "The next war."

* * *

 _These Fatalistic Gods is a long-drafted and redrafted pet project of mine, designed to give me closure on a Wizarding World that's felt less and less authentic as time has gone on. I'm publishing this draft I'm still unhappy with as motivation to keep writing it. It may be that nobody finds this interesting, but after 4 years of living with these characters I love so much and a canon I hate more and more, I want to finally get it done. Come along with me if you like!_

 _This is also a long-winded way of saying that Cursed Child and Fantastic Beasts aren't canon in this._

 _Love ya,_

 _-c_


	2. Chapter 2: Ministry Records

PROPHECY REPORT

Date: 1st January 2003 16:34

Filled out by: Unspeakable John Sicor

Seer: Tiresias Mopsus

Nature of Prophecy: [REDACTED. SEE A LEVEL 1 STAFF MEMBER FOR FURTHER INFORMATION.]

Prophecy words: [REDACTED. SEE A LEVEL 1 STAFF MEMBER FOR FURTHER INFORMATION.]

* * *

 **TRANSCRIPT OF EMERGENCY O.C.C.A.M.Y BRIEFING, 01/01/03. STENOGRAPHER: ANDREW DAVIES**

 **PRESENT:**

 **Kingsley Shacklebolt,** _MfM_

 **Agatha Duvivier,** _Chief Undersecretary to the MfM_

 **Amabel Holst,** _Secretary, Dept. of Mysteries_

 **Helen Spencer-Moon,** _Secretary, Dept. of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes_

 **Meredith Rosier,** _Chief Obliviator_

 **Dr. Matt Jones,** _Prophetic Studies, Worshipful Company of Magick_

 **SHACKLEBOLT** : Have you all read the report?

[General assent.]

 **SHACKLEBOLT** : No need to stall this any longer, then.

 **JONES** : My apologies, Minister, for that.

 **SHACKLEBOLT** : Not at all, Dr. Jones, we appreciate you coming on such short notice. Mrs Rosier?

 **ROSIER** : Minister, at approximately four-fifteen this afternoon the Seer Tiresias Mopsus predicted a future of significant danger in Diagon Alley. We apprehended all witnesses and planted false memories of a normal afternoon.

 **SPENCER-MOON** : Are you certain of this, Mrs Rosier?

 **ROSIER** : My Obliviators do their jobs, Helen. We're certain.

 **SHACKLEBOLT** : What of the Seer?

 **ROSIER** : I personally removed his memories, Minister. He's currently recovering from an apparent fall in St Mungo's.

 **JONES** : You obliviated… _how_ many?

 **ROSIER** : I'm not at liberty to say to civilians—

 **SHACKLEBOLT** : He's codeword cleared, Meredith. Tell him.

 **ROSIER** : …Fifty-three, not including Tiresias Mopsus.

 **JONES** : Oh, let's include him.

 **ROSIER** : Doctor Jones, are you intending to undermine this meeting?

 **JONES** : Not at all, Mrs Rosier— it's just going to make my job more difficult if I can't interview the guy.

 **SHACKLEBOLT** : It's too dangerous to have an unknown civilian be aware of this prophecy. Until further notice, I want Mopsus tagged with an Unspeakable posing as medical staff until we can be certain of no further prophecies. Secretary Holst?

 **HOLST** : That'll be no problem.

 **SPENCER-MOON** : Minister, I'm concerned about the details of this prophecy.

 **HOLST** : Aren't we all.

 **SPENCER-MOON** : The prophecy makes clear that the end of the world is dependent on these two individuals—

 **DUVIVIER** : They've been codenamed 'P' and 'D'. Phoenix and Dragon.

 **HOLST** : I'll be having words with my department on making fanciful choices like those, by the way.

 **SPENCER-MOON** : Which is which?

 **DUVIVIER** : Muggleborn is Phoenix, pureblood is Dragon.

 **SPENCER-MOON** : That if Phoenix wins a war to come, the wizarding world will die. That if Dragon and Phoenix do not engage in war, the world comes to its end. That the Dragon could save the wizarding world.

 **JONES** : And ensure the death of all six billion and-some No-Maj, in case you didn't read further. Secretary, prophecies are—

 **SPENCER-MOON** : —Dr Jones, I'm not yet done. Surely our next step should be to find Dragon and

 **[REDACTED FROM RECORDS AT REQUEST OF MINISTER SHACKLEBOLT.]**

 **SHACKLEBOLT** : Stop. I'll speak to you later, Secretary. Doctor Jones, can we be sure of this prophecy's legitimacy?

 **JONES** : …Well, my entire field of study is around this subject. Can I be assured that this prophecy is as legitimate as any other? Yes.

 **HOLST** : How do you know?

 **JONES** : The report your Unspeakable, Sicor, wrote up? It talks about Mopsus entering a fugue state during this prophecy. 'Eyes rolling into the back of his head, voice sounding like a million talking at once.' Not sure if you've ever tried to do that before, but it's hard.

 **HOLST** : That's fake-able.

 **JONES** : Possibly. But the next part is undeniable. All prophecies fall into an analysable word patterning. It's nigh-impossible to fake. This put together with the fugue state and the well-respected prophet in question? I'd call this accurate without a doubt. However; it's not necessarily true.

 **SHACKLEBOLT** : Oh?

 **JONES** : ...Look. This part requires in-depth knowledge of theoretical physics and number theory to explain. Can we take it at face value for now that prophecies are most possibly semi-sentient objects of Minkowski spacetime that have aspects that are changeable and aspects that are unchangeable?

 **SPENCER-MOON** : If you say so.

 **JONES** : I do. Prophecy is a tricky thing: it permits permutations of the self. Bending the rules, if you like, but only with certain aspects. So when Mopsus said in the prophecy that— ah, Mrs Rosier, could you pass me the report?—Mrs Rosier?— Thank you. When Mopsus said:

 **[REDACTED FROM RECORDS AT REQUEST OF SECRETARY AMABEL HOLST.]**

He may not have necessarily meant that the end of the world was coming, or that all wizards would die if the 'Phoenix' and mugglekind weren't murdered. It could be— allegorical.

 **SPENCER-MOON** : Murder's allegorical now?

 **JONES** : Look, I'm trying to suggest—

 **SPENCER-MOON** : I think you're trying to twist words here, Doctor Jones.

 **JONES** : I think you're being suspiciously obstinate, Secretary Spencer-Moon.

 **SPENCER-MOON** : I'm trying to ascertain the safety of my people, Jones, and I don't need a lecture on muggle 'physics' from-

 **SHACKLEBOLT** : Secretary Spencer-Moon. Wait for me in my office.

 **SPENCER-MOON** : Minister, I'm the one trying to get the truth of the situation h—

 **SHACKLEBOLT** : I don't recall asking, Helen.

[At this point, S-M leaves the room.]

 **SHACKLEBOLT** : To conclude this briefing—

..

* * *

Helen Spencer-Moon did not appreciate being sent outside like she was an unruly child, and she made this frustration clear by sweeping out of the room with a glare shot towards Shacklebolt. _Young upstart_ — she had led her department for almost as long as he'd been alive, and the thanks she gets is a dismissal in the time they need her most?

She knows she'll be getting a talking-to about 'the words you can't say anymore, Helen'. Fine, she understands: she belongs to an older generation of people who aren't as hampered by the new idiotic rules on what you can and can't say that the younger generation have imposed. Yes, yes, the war, etcetera etcetera, but that shouldn't be used as a catchall excuse to police language, if someone was to ask her. Not that anyone was going to ask Helen, the batty old woman in Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.

As for 'Doctor Matt Jones'— she could see, besides the obvious, why the Jones family had disowned him. She'd been to a number of their balls and breakfasts, and if they had heard the kind of backchat he had been giving her, when _he_ had been invited to see _them_ : well, that would be a subject of interest the next time she met them. Helen twisted her wand angrily, sending a few winged memos scattering with a shower of sparks.

Kingsley Shacklebolt entered the room with an expression of thunderous anger on his face. Helen summoned up her most forceful stare.

" _Fine_ , get it done with. What have I said that's not allowed this time?"

Kingsley got up close to her, just inching over her in height and using that small advantage to its full capacity.

"Don't say that like I'm getting _petty_ , Helen! In the full view of a non-governmental asset you _speculated openly_ on the murder of _all_ non-wix people!"

"Do you want me to just nod and smile, _Minister_? We have the headstart on the public, for _once_ , on a prophecy. One that's potentially _worse_ than the You-Know-Who tragedies, and you don't want to face the truth on what it's _actively telling us to do_?"

Kingsley stepped back, rubbing his eyes, before moving to pace the room. Helen could admittedly agree with the Minister on the aspect of being tired: they had both been awake for somewhere close to thirty hours, which for both their ages just wasn't healthy anymore.

"I don't know _yet_ if that's what we have to do, Helen. Why did you think I brought Jones _in_?!"

"Frankly, I assumed it was another one of your idiotic diversity drives."

Kingsley snapped his head around to Helen.

"You're on very thin ice, Helen. I brought you back after the war because you're competent, but don't think I can't find someone else to the do the job."

Helen narrowed her eyes. "Do what job, sir? Give you the answer you want to hear? I can do that, if you like. Minister Shacklebolt, your policies aren't pandering at all. Minister Shacklebolt, we should all just love each other and that'll make the prophecy go away. Minis-"

"You aren't helping this situation by making this into a personal tirade against my politics!"

"You're not helping this situation by letting your politics blind you!"

Kingsley laughed incredulously. " _I'm_ the one blinded by politics?!"

"He said the entire wizarding world was going to be brought down in fire, Kingsley. He said this muggleborn, the Phoenix, whichever, was going to raise up a muggle army and then singlehandedly murder us all."

"Helen." Kingsley grated out, sitting down heavily at his desk chair. "I need you to contain the situation, not make your own decisions on the future of the world."

"It's my future, sir."

"As is it mine, Helen, don't think I'm becoming complacent." Kingsley rubbed his eyes again. "You want to find the Dragon and mould them into our saviour. Another Potter."

"Yes."

"At the cost of all muggle lives."

"I won't lie down and wait for death, Minister."

Kingsley beckoned her over, and she sat opposite him after a long pause. He stared at his desk for a while, paging absently through the prophecy report. Then he took out his wand, murmured something softly, and set it alight. Helen watched in surprise as the report crumbled into ash.

"For now, Helen, we're going to do this my way. We're going to wait on what Jones can find out about this prophecy before taking any extreme actions."

" _Sir_ -"

"But only officially."

Helen blinked. "—Sir?"

"The prophecy's only specific wording is about the birthdates of 'P' and 'D'. The rest might be allegorical, as Dr Jones states, but we have concrete knowledge that it would not be...unethical...to act on."

"...What are you saying, sir?"

"...I'd like you to put together a new committee, Secretary."

* * *

 **Owlpost Record, 02/01/03**

 **40 letters sent by Helen Spencer-Moon re. 'Committee For Educational Standards' to:**

 **Meredith Rosier,** _Chief Obliviator_

 **John Sicor,** _Unspeakable_

 **Minerva McGonagall,** _Headmistress, Hogwarts_

 **Amund Eliassen,** _Headmaster, Durmstrang_

 **Olympe Maxime,** _Headmistress, Beauxbatons_

 **Lucas Garcia,** _Headmaster, New York Academy for Wixen_

 **Allegra Bianchi,** _Headmistress, Conservatorio di Magia_

 **Zhāng Mǐn,** _Headmistress, Xi'an Shuyuan_

 **...**

* * *

 _This chapter is the bane of my existence. I had to invent not only all the characters and arcs in advance but also multiple magical schools. I'm going to have to find an excuse to use the Conservatorio di Magia after the hell I went through to figure out how the entire place works._

 _I also haven't decided whether or not I'm using the Pottermore schools in this version of canon. So much of Pottermore is excellent and so much more of it feels slapdash. Eleven schools for the entire world and three of them are Northern European? One school for the entirety of the Asian continent? I'll never figure out what the wizarding populations' size actually is._

 _-c_


	3. Chapter 3: Maz

**2013**

* * *

An hour and a half into the exam, Maz Nakir started putting in wrong answers.

She had her reasons: she wasn't a big fan of Biology, and had never obviously applied herself in the subject. For GCSE Physics, she had only put in three or four wrong answers, because she enjoyed the subject very much and had revised hard to keep up appearances, but for Biology? Fuck it. Maz went over her pencilled in answer for Question 13, scrubbed it out, and penned in something objectively incorrect.

Maz wasn't a _cheat_ , per se. Or, she wasn't sure to count what she did as cheating. But for the whole of her life, no matter how little she knew of the subject, she had always gotten the answer right in her exams, if she so chose to know it.

Of course, this strategy had been great when she was younger, but there comes a time where getting 100% around the board starts to look suspicious, and after a close call of her primary school trying to catch her at cheating and nearly getting rid of her even when they couldn't prove it, she had carefully curated a style of exam-taking that made her look nicely mediocre. Of course, her parents still cited the days when she had been a perfect test-taker, but she got the feeling even _they_ had become suspicious, and so she continued her trend.

This didn't work for English, she had found, nor History, nor anything with a subjective answer; if she had to write her opinion, her little _knack_ for knowing things wouldn't work. But if there was a definitive right-or-wrong answer? Well, she just... had a good talent for guessing.

The exam ended just as she penned in the final wrong working, and she neatly placed her pen down. She had used this pen for work since 2011; the ink never seemed to run out.

She strolled out into the cloudy haze of the afternoon: it was a warm July, but a stormy one, and she could feel the humidity in her hair and in how much she was sweating into her overwarm uniform. It was going to thunder tonight, without question. She gravitated, as all students do, to the small, whispering groups discussing the last two hours. She pulled on a mask of concern.

"Hey," she said to an alarmed friend of hers, joining him as he walked briskly from the exam hall. "How'd it go?"

"You joking?" Nate said. "That was the _worst_. I'm failing for sure."

"I'm sure it wasn't that bad, mate," Maz consoled.

"Yeah? What did you get for Question 13?"

Maz frowned, trying hard _not_ to guess. "Uh, seventeen."

"Seventeen?!"

"See? You're at least better than me." Maz clapped him on the shoulder. "Are you coming with to mine?"

"God yeah."

* * *

Starbucks bought, exams commiserated, day drawn to evening. Maz sat playing idly with cards, shuffling and reshuffling them in a circle of her friends. The heat of the day had lessened to a low, roiling calm before a storm, bearable now she was out of uniform, but no less humid. They had all come to Maz' garden to relax, because it was close, and because Maz' mum let them drink on the premises. The gnarled ash tree above them fluttered shadows on Maz as she shuffled.

Maz' palms were sweaty, but even so, she had a 'knack' for shuffling cards, and she flicked one into the air. It dropped, twisted mid-air, looked for sure like she couldn't catch it, but it moved oddly, _flickered in space for a split second_ , and—she effortlessly integrated it back into the pack. Then, realising she was with company, looked up.

Nate and Charlotte blinked. Jack leant in with his eyes wide.

"How'd you _do_ that?"

Maz shrugged.

"Practice. Wanna play poker?"

In fact, if Jack had placed a gun to her head just then and demanded the truth, Maz couldn't have told him how she did 'that'. Or anything she did, in fact, that she'd taken to think of as just an odd knack, or coincidence, or lucky habit. In fact, all of Maz' life had been carefully ignoring everything that was _unspeakably wrong_.

Like how she could get right answers in every test. Like how she could flip a coin and it was _always_ land on heads. Like how her hair, after a terrible cut, came back the same length next day. Or how, when she was seven, she had fallen off the scariest swing at the park at its highest point, and drifted to the ground as light as a feather. Or how, when she was nine, she had hugged her dead cat after it had broken its neck falling off the roof, and _for four awful hours it had walked and meowed with a broken neck, not breathing, not seeing, before slumping down dead again_.

But Jack had not demanded the truth, because Maz had gotten very good at making herself unsuspicious, and so they played poker in the waning golden sunlight of her garden.

"All I'm saying is," Charlotte said as Maz dealt the cards, "I don't know what I'm going to pick if both sixth forms accept me."

"Alright for you," Nate cut in, snatching up a half-eaten pack of Doritos and grabbing a ridiculous handful, "Some of us are figuring what happens if none of them accept us."

"Or I get the GCSEs back and they're all 'U's," Jack chimed in with a sigh, grabbing an even more ridiculous handful. "I'm going to be that loner retaking Year 11 while everyone else's in Sixth Form."

"Worse ways to go," Maz shrugged. "You hear about Sam in Year 13?"

"Who?"

"Blond, blue eyes, tall, always wearing the cravat thing."

"Cravat?"

"That napkin tie."

"Oh, gotcha."

"What'd he do?"

"Emailed a naked selfie to the whole school."

Charlotte stopped halfway through stuffing Doritos in her mouth, making her look like a particularly demented chipmunk. Maz grinned.

"What?!" Jack said. "Like everything?"

"Like, he had just his torso on show in the camera, but there was a mirror behind him to specifically show his arse."

"That's weird," Nate said with a horrified expression, although he wasn't quite horrified enough not to grab more Doritos. He seemed to find that the packet was empty and tossed it away with annoyance. "What kind of dickhead does that?"

"A suspended dickhead," Maz said, flourishing one hand, before setting down the last cards and grabbing for the empty Doritos packet. She found a perfect handful, suspiciously the amount she had wanted, still inside. She blinked at it then abruptly crumpled the still-empty packet and chucked it into a bin bag set against the tree.

Looking up at the sky while the group dissolved into discussions of how they always knew Sam had been a weirdo, Maz noted that the sunlight and the warmth was waning fast; it must be late already, although she could have sworn she had seen a clock half an hour ago that said six. She clicked her phone. 6:30. She frowned. It shouldn't be this dark.

But she had a lifetime of ignoring things that happened to her, so she started the festivities.

"Cider, anyone?"

"Got any beer?" Nate asked, to which Maz gave him a look of annoyance.

"I literally just said cider. Mum's okay with you guys drinking a little, but not enough that your parents could complain, so Kopparberg it is."

"I hate Kopparberg," Nate whined, grabbing a can and opening it.

"How come your parents let you drink?" Charlotte asked, grabbing her own can. "Mine'd go ballistic."

"Dad wouldn't let me, but he's always doing lectures so he can't get a say," Maz said, feeling just a little twinge of frustration that even during off season for uni, Dad hadn't come back to the house yet. Another conference he could only FaceTime briefly from. "You've met mum, she's an eccentric. She figures that getting me to drink young prevents me drinking excessively."

"Little does she know," Nate said with a grin, "You drank half that bottle of vodka at the post-Geography party."

"That was epic," Jack said. "You didn't even look drunk."

Maz smiled non-commitally. She hadn't been drunk. She had never found a limit she could drink to and get drunk.

Charlotte was counting out some loose change from a zippable pocket. "Anyone else for penny stakes?"

"I'm up for that," Jack replied, leaning back where he sat to grab his wallet. "What kind of minimums?"

"I'm not going higher than a pound per round, I need to get the train tomorrow," Maz said. "So let's put it at a penny minimum, you guys always drive the cash up too fast. Not that I'm calling anyone out in particular. Jack."

"I like drama!"

"No, really?" Nate said. "I thought you hated drama, Mr 'Have I Told You I Take GCSE Drama'-"

Maz laughed, cutting in. "-'I'm Going To Apply For RADA'-"

Charlotte threw a crumb of Dorito in Jack's direction. "-'I can't stop myself from singing American musicals'-"

"-Alright-" Jack tried, looking a little put upon.

"-Mr 'Have you heard of Lin-Manuel Miranda'-"

"Fuck off!" Jack laughed, throwing a Wotsit at Charlotte's head, who squealed as it lodged itself in her curls. "Until you _actually_ listen to 'In The Heights' you can't call me out for that."

"I'll listen to it after EngLang, I promise."

"I'm going to have Wotsit crumbs in my hair now," Charlotte grumbled, yanking the snack from her hair. Maz rolled her eyes and tapped Charlotte's cards insistently.

"Okay, everyone ready to go?"

Nate looked up from sorting through some loose change. "Hang on, Maz- how're you going to fleece us out of our cash if you're the dealer?"

Maz had kind of hoped they wouldn't call her out on that. "-Uh, I don't know, I'm just dealing."

"Come on, live up to your challenge. I know the rules, and I don't have enough for both this and the bus anyway."

Jack piped up. "Yeah, I've never seen you play, Maz! Come on, show us what you've got."

Nate gestured for the cards, and while Maz really didn't want to hand them over it would have been weirder to argue, so she handed them over and recieved a well-shuffled hand of two in return.

She sneaked a glance at it. Ace and King, both hearts. She hid her frustration by draining as much cider from her can as she could in one go, and grabbed for the wallet in her bomber jacket, throwing down the small blind for the round with a little too much force.

She really hated this.

Nate laid down the first card with a flourish and an eyebrow wiggle to the group. "Ten of hearts, the Dave of Love. Everyone?"

"Call."

"Call."

"Raise." Charlotte threw twenty pence into an empty Dorito bowl sat in the middle.

"On the first round?" Nate asked, an expression of distaste on his face. "Charlotte, have you ever played poker before?"

"You're not my dad, I'll play how I want."

"Alright, fuck it, whatever. Your money, mate. Maz?"

Maz held her cards to her a moment. Ace and King of hearts. If the Queen and Jack got played as well as the 10 already laid down, she'd have a royal flush, the highest possible card hand.

She put them down. "Fold."

"Nice job fleecing us," Jack grinned. Maz gave him a fond middle finger and drained the rest of her cider.

A few rounds passed before anyone noticed the constant inclusion of high-ranking and same-suited cards being laid out, and before anyone noticed that Maz was folding every single round. But it was just long enough for someone to call out the latter before the former, and for Maz to consequently be encouraged into staying on to the end.

"Come on," Charlotte said, elbowing Maz good-naturedly. "You're gonna buy yourself out of the game at this rate. One round, and then we'll let you drink in sulky silence."

Maz bit her tongue briefly, just briefly.

"One game, and then I'm going back in the house and getting something drinkable. This Tesco Value stuff isn't good just because it's cheap, Jack."

"Alcohol is alcohol, Mazza, and the price differences are lies perpetuated by the capitalists."

Charlotte shook her head, counting out pennies to call a bet. "One of these days, I'm mixing real cocktails for you cheap fuckers."

Maz sighed, drained the last of yet another cider can, and called the bet.

Nate laid down the third card. "So that's a King, Ace, and Queen of spades. Possible royal flush, once again."

"Have you actually shuffled these cards?" Jack asked. "This is like the third time now."

Nate looked annoyed. "I'm shuffling these like a motherfucker, Jack. It's just luck. 'Sides, they're all different suits, how would I manage to get a set of _different_ royal flush possibilities?"

"I'm just saying," Jack responded, "You should give me the other two cards if you want to be a dickhead."

"I fold," Charlotte said, throwing down her cards. "'Sides, I have to go piss."

"Go, go," Maz said dryly, "more cash for us."

"All forty pence of it," Charlotte returned, standing up, then looking up at the sky. It had gotten dark. Maz blinked into the darkness. Something about this felt wrong.

"We've been playing way too long," Charlotte said, gesturing to the dark sky before walking down the garden to the house. Maz looked away.

"Threesome of kings," Jack said, throwing down his cards. Nate sighed.

"Again, not what it's called."

"Three pair."

"I hate you. Maz?"

"Mm?"

"Your cards."

"Oh. Yeah." Maz threw them with feigned indifference into the middle. The Jack and the 10 of hearts. Perfect royal flush.

Jack and Nate, after several seconds of silence, burst into mutual hysteria. Jack clutched at Nate as he collapsed backwards.

"Oh my god," Nate whimpered, headbutting Maz helplessly as he doubled over in laughter. "Maz, you're the worst best player at poker."

"My title has been taken! The money is yours!" Jack upended the bowl of change into Maz' lap, before he reverted into giggles.

"Did you stack the deck before I got it?" Nate wailed through gasps into Maz' shoulder. Maz shook her head, feeling more self-conscious than she had in a very long time.

"Just lucky, I guess," Maz said.

 _I need to be more careful,_ Maz thought, deeply uncomfortable with the laugher, feeling more uncomfortable by the moment. _Something like this can't happen again._

It was at that moment that the screams began.

Charlotte.

Close, still in the garden.

Maz looked up in shock, _hadn't Charlotte started walking down the garden minutes ago?,_ but reared back as she realised she could now see—nothing. Opaque black. Something in her mind pinged to tell her that the _wrong_ sky she had seen before when Charlotte had left had been wrong because _there had been no stars in it._ The darkness pushed against her. She could feel that it had a mouth, scraping at her arm, something toothy and round. She called out and it was muffled. She started to panic. Charlotte's screams died away.

She pushed the darkness and it pushed back, pushed her down so she was lying on the cool grass. She could feel a packet crunch underneath her. The darkness wrapped around her, pushed down like a blanket getting ever heavier, until her chest had no air and she was shaking, shivering, _oh god, what is this, oh god, my chest will break._ The mouth bit down _hard_ and she could feel flesh rip from flesh.

Fear surged adrenaline in her and mixed with anger and came from her like a force of fury.

She felt something inside of her burst.

 ** _White_** , then nothing.


End file.
